Life Left to Live
by Sierra Nichole
Summary: My first story in this category, a little drabble I hope you like. Gilbert must make the decision to fight for life while he's suffering from scarlet fever, and all so he can be with Anne.


**Title: Life Left to Live**

**Author: Sierra **

**Rating: PG**

**Summary: Just a little oneshot/drabble that takes place when Gilbert is recovering from scarlet fever, showing how he came to the decision to fight back so he could be with the woman he loved.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any piece of this wonderful book series, I just got done watching the mini-series for the umpteenth time and was inspired (Gilbert and Anne are amazing). Please don't sue me!**

**A/N: My first fanfiction in this category, so reviews are whole-heartedly welcomed, but please be gentle! :)**

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It felt like there was a little man inside his head with a large hammer, slamming into his skull over and over again; the pain was merciless and throbbing, and kept him from sleeping for any extended period of time. His entire body was flushed red and damp with sweat, but he shivered uncontrollably beneath the piles of blankets. He could feel his pulse beating rapidly. It was all unbearable, he wanted to fight it, to make himself better. . . but he was just so tired.

Vaguely, he heard the door creak open and footsteps drawing nearer, he briefly wondered who it was when he felt a gentle tug on his nightshirt's sleeve, then his father's calloused hand on his cheek. Slowly, he opened his heavy eyelids and after blinking wearily, two figures appeared before him. . . his father, and a woman? Confusion settled into his slow-working brain. Who could it be?

"Hello, Gil. It's me."

The voice instantly brought a flood of recognition, and joy overwhelmed him, though he couldn't show it; he attempted a smile, knowing she could never see, and managed a sickly whisper: "Anne." His voice sounded foreign to even him.

Anne walked up to his bed and knelt beside him, her eyes bright with unshed tears, but her smile as comforting as ever. "I've come to ask you to go for one of our old-time rambles in the woods," she said. 

"I wish I could go. . ." he sighed.

"I brought you my book---" as she spoke, Anne retrieved a hardcover book from her shawl and held it out to him "---I've been published, Gil. I wrote about Avonlea, just as you said I should, without any highfalutin mumbo-jumbo." Again, he smiled inwardly. "I've dedicated the inscription to Marilla and to Matthew, and to you. I was thinking of saving it as a wedding gift, and then I just decided I couldn't wait."

"Anne. . . there's not going to be any wedding anymore."

"You're going to get well, Gil," Anne insisted, her determination and spunk as fiery as ever, "I know you will." She gripped his hand and held it to her cheek, he could feel her tears. 

"I called it off," he explained, "it wouldn't have been fair to Christine. . ."

"Gil," Anne murmured.

He wanted to stay awake, he really did. But the darkness was closing in fast from the corners of his eyes. "There will never be anyone for me, but you." Unable to keep his eyes open any longer, he let them drift close, his awareness disappearing. . .

Anne gazed down at Gilbert as he slipped into unconsciousness, feeling his grasp on her tiny hand fall limp; for a second she felt the cold stab of fear as she wondered if he was gone, but then her eyes focused on the shaky rise and fall of his chest. His breath was raspy, uneven, he was horribly pale. . . he really did look like he was at death's door. 

_Please don't leave me, Gil. _

She sat still for somewhere around thirty minutes before Mr. Blythe came in and suggested she go on home, a storm was on the way and Gilbert needed his rest; she nodded her consent, planted a sweet kiss on Gilbert's hand, then stood up and walked away. Wondering if she had just said goodbye for the last time.

xxxxx

That night, Gilbert awoke shivering so badly his teeth were chattering, the shaking only increased the pain in his head and made it even harder to breathe; after a few minutes of suffering in silence, he finally let out a small cry of pain and frustration, and in moments, his father came rushing into the room. He placed cool cloths on his son's forehead and rubbed the back of his hand comfortingly till Gilbert fell back asleep, then silently he got up and went back to bed.

The next morning was no better, or different from any other day. Gilbert awoke to the doctor calling his name, luring him away from his restless sleep; he tried to speak but his words came out as meaningless croaks between harsh gasps for air. Through blurred eyes, he saw the doctor turn to his father and shake his head mournfully, then place a hand on his shoulder.

"Gilbert. . . son," his father spoke, sinking down on the bed next to him, putting his hand on the top of Gilbert's head and stroking his hair. 

"He doesn't think. . . it looks good," Gilbert whispered, "does he?"

He saw the hesitation in his father's eyes. Should he lie and give Gilbert false hope, or tell him the truth and possibly vanquish any chance for him to live? Finally, he said: "No. He, uh. . . he told me you don't have. . . " his voice broke, but Gilbert knew what the unspoken words were. _I don't have much time left._

A vision of a pretty, redheaded woman floated in front of him and his father's figure disappeared as delirium set in along with the high fever; Anne gave him that adorable smile, calling his name as she ran across the green fields and down to the river. Her hair was down and blew in the gentle breeze away from her lightly freckled face, but a strand or two remained stuck and he reached out to brush them away. . .

"Was Anne here?" he asked, suddenly. 

Mr. Blythe blinked. "Yes. . . yes, she was. Yesterday."

Gilbert nodded slightly, then grimaced. "I remember. . . a little." 

"The doctor said it would be hard for you to remember things," his father said, "your fever's been high for the past couple days." Another cold cloth pressed to his sweaty brow. "She brought you a copy of her book. . . would you like me to read some of it to you?"

"Yes. . . " 

From the first word, he could tell it all came from Anne. He could sense her spirit within each dot of ink, and with every sentence memories of their childhood in Avonlea came back to him; he smiled fondly at the memory of her smashing her slate over his head, and even managed a small laugh at the retelling of the story about how Anne accidentally got Diana drunk. How he longed to be back with her. . . but in the meantime he was too worn out to even lay still and listen for longer than ten minutes. 

Still, that was all it took for him to receive a burst of renewed determination and resolve. He was going to survive. And when he did, he wouldn't let Anne slip away from him again. . .

_Anne turned to face him when she heard his muffled footsteps fall on the sandy beach, behind her the waves crashed onto the shore, and a gust of wind sent her hair flying forward, framing her face perfectly. She smiled. "Gil," she said, "I knew you'd be all right."_

_"I had to tell you," Gilbert said, softly, "I---"_

_"I know," Anne cut him off, brash as ever, "I love you, too."_

_Breaking into a happy grin, Gilbert took her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers, savoring the taste of her and how it felt when she brought her hands up and grabbed onto his back; they broke away for air a few minutes later, both blushing and gasping. Anne laughed joyfully, throwing her head back. Unable to take it, Gilbert leaned in and kissed her neck playfully, enciting even more laughter from the both of them._

_"Oh, Gil," Anne cried, looking into his eyes, "what would I have done without you?"_

_"Aw, you would've been fine." Gilbert raised his hand and ran his fingers through her thick hair. "But I'm not leaving you anyway. . . you're stuck with me."_

_"Gladly!"_

_They kissed again._

. . . Gilbert's eyes flew open with a gasp, he struggled against the hands that were gripping his seizing body, unable to comprehend their good intentions. 

"His fever's too high," the doctor said, urgently, "we've got to get it lower or he'll never make it." He released his hold on the young man, forcing Mr. Blythe to help his son through the seizure while he went a filled up a bucket with cold water. The older Blythe man kept a firm grip on Gilbert's forearms, trying to ignore his son's confused, pain-filled eyes and his open mouth, trying desperately to suck in air.

The doctor ripped open Gilbert's shirt and placed soaked cloths onto his burning skin, breathing a sigh of relief when the seizure finally stopped and Gilbert lay limp, wheezing pathetically. For the next hour, the two men repeatedly replaced the cloths were newer, colder ones and spoke in hushed tones to the sick man, trying desperately to save his life, hoping against hope there was still a way.

And then finally, Gilbert broke out into a cold sweat and his hot to the touch skin finally cooled; the doctor's smile lit up the dim room when he brought his hand away from Gilbert's forehead. "The fever is broken," he said, "I-I cannot believe it."

Mr. Blythe fought against every instinct as a father to burst into tears of joy, instead satisfying himself with grasping Gilbert's hand and holding it close; all the memories they had shared flashed before his eyes, since the day his wife delivered a healthy, baby boy to his acceptance into medical school. He had a lot to be proud of. But there was still so much more for Gilbert to do. _And now he can._

"You're going to live, son," he murmured.

Gilbert's trembling hand extended and rested on his father's shoulder. "You. . . know. . . me." _Did he really sound _that _awful? _

"You gave us quite a scare," the doctor said.

"Well. . . I've got. . . a lot of living. . . left to do." 

_Anne._

xxxxx

For a few days after the fever had broken, Gilbert was still too feeble to even lift his head, and then for even longer than that, to get out of bed; but eventually, his strength returned and the illness faded away, though the doctor readily admitted he may never be as healthy as he once was. . . scarlet fever had a nasty habit of leaving lifelong effects on its victims. But what was important remained, he was alive.

His father told him he had stopped by Green Gables and let Anne know he would survive, and she had sent her fondest regards and well wishes, just the thought of her speaking to him warmed his heart and sped up his recovery. Throughout the long, exhausting process, he constantly imagined him in front of her, and each step brought her nearer to him. It was frustrating though, especially when he suffered a minor relapse two weeks later and fought his way through another fever, then had to work at building his strength up all over again. It felt like the day would never come when he would see her again.

The summer was over by the time his strength had come back enough for him to walk around without getting too tired, and he expected by mid-autumn he would be back in shape; he was grateful for the sickness, and hoped that in the future it would help him sympathize with his patients. It had also made things clearer. Anne was the most important person in his life, and it was time he made that clear to her.

So one afternoon, when the weather was cool but comfortable and the sun was just about ready to set, he walked out of his home and down the dirt roads that led to Green Gables, whistling cheerfully, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his cream-colored pants. He imagined Anne accepting him with open arms. . . he imagined it would be like the dream he had right before the seizure. . . but in reality he knew she might not love him, just like over a year ago, the first time he proposed. He was ready to deal with either alternative.

What he _wasn't _ready for was how beautiful Anne looked in the early evening light, out picking fruit with an older woman whom he had never met; her hair was piled up on her head in a loose bun, she wore an apron and a white shirt that clung to her every curve and emphasized her small waste, as always, the hem of her skirt was torn and muddy. He chuckled. That was his Anne.

Smiling, he opened his mouth and spoke to her: "Hello, Anne."

She turned to him. . . and smiled.

**END.**


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